The Oubliette
by Captainraychill
Summary: A story about forgetting. Dark fanfiction inspired by the movie, Labyrinth. Draco/Hermione.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes: **This story was written for Dramione Couples Remix 2012 on Livejournal. The fest's prompts are famous couples in history, literature, movies, etc. My couple was Jareth and Sarah from the movie, _Labyrinth_.

I focused on the oubliette in that story. An oubliette is a dungeon that only has an opening at the top. It is from the French word _oublier_, which means "to forget". According to Hoggle in _Labyrinth_ an oubliette is a place you put people to forget about them.

I used direct quotes from _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ and _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_. Thank you to my wonderful Beta, Niteshine/ Blythe!

**Disclaimer: **Anything you recognize I do not own. No profit is being made by me.

**READ THESE WARNINGS: **Very dark elements, angst, graphic sexual content, dubious consent, drug-like references, brief mention of rape, bad language, torture via Cruciatus Curse, OOC due to plot, alternate universe (split from canon during the Skirmish at Malfoy Manor, seventh year). If you wish, read my Profile/Bio to see the kinds of warnings I do not make.

This story has a much darker tone than others I've published on Fanfiction so far, but I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

**THE OUBLIETTE**

**CHAPTER ONE**

Draco remembered the oubliette as he watched his aunt torture Hermione Granger.

Malfoy Manor had many secret rooms and hidden passages, but its darkest and most mysterious architecture was the oubliette. It was silent, subterranean and completely undetectable through layers of magic and stone, a dungeon inspired by the legendary tombs of the pharaoh wizards with one notable exception. If he could find a way to get her there, Granger would be safe.

Draco knew he shouldn't care what happened to the Mudblood, but he did. He'd stopped trying to puzzle it out years ago, his shameful fascination, why his eyes lingered on her when he was unobserved.

He clenched his jaw every time the vicious acid of the Cruciatus Curse burned through her nerves. She screamed in agony, thrashing on the floor. Tears flowed out of the corners of her tightly shut eyes. Weasley screamed her name, over and over, pounding on the inside of the cellar door. He was frantic. He was in love with her.

As she struggled, her shirt twisted up over her waist, revealing a strip of soft, white skin. Draco heard an animal whimper and looked across the drawing room at Fenrir Greyback. The werewolf seemed in distress, trembling and panting. His eyes were black with lust, and his hideous hand was vigorously rubbing his erection through his trousers. Draco looked back down at Hermione, at her little body. Greyback would rip her apart.

"A copy? Oh, a likely story!" Bellatrix screamed. Then Father spoke, his voice quiet but urgent.

"Draco, fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the sword is real or not."

"The goblin, yes," Bellatix hissed, looking at Draco.

She had eyes like a beetle's shell, black and hard and shiny. Whenever he steps on a bug, when he hears its armor pop, he always thinks of his aunt's black eyes crushed beneath his shoe. He thinks of how much he hates her.

* * *

Draco hadn't met his Aunt Bellatrix until the summer he'd turned fourteen.

Azkaban terrified him, every breath filling his body with the chill of the Northern Sea and with despair. The year before, at Hogwarts, the dementors had seemed like monsters from a folktale, the misery they caused easily banished by a warm fire and a cup of hot chocolate. But here, there was no escape from a sense of deep desolation. Draco resisted the childish urge to take his mother's hand as they walked deeper into the cold prison.

All of his aunt's portraits had been burned upon her incarceration, but his mother had kept an old newspaper clipping, a betrothal announcement. In her youth, Bellatrix Black had been darkly gorgeous, regal and haughty. When she walked out of the shadows of her cell toward him, chains rattling, she was a ruin of beauty. Filthy, her black hair wild, her teeth rotten. She smelled of piss and shit. But somehow, she still seemed graceful. As poised as Mother who looked like a luminous angel in the dark.

Bellatrix walked as far as the manacles around her ankles would allow, into flickering torchlight, and stared at Draco intently through iron bars. Her black gaze felt like insects crawling over his skin. He looked down.

"He's weak," she sneered with disgust. "A little coward. You should have thrown him into the fire when he was born and tried again."

"Bella. Stop."

"Tell me, Cissy, do you still spread your pretty, white thighs for Lucius? Can you still give him a real heir?"

"Bella," Narcissa said almost gently. "Do you want us to leave?"

Bellatrix fell silent then and considered her sister, who was only granted visitation once a year.

Despite their great differences, Draco felt like he was looking at a woman and her reflection in an enchanted mirror. A glimpse through glass into the underworld. They had the same long neck and sharp cheekbones. They held their chins at the same proud angle. Both of their expressions were wary. And then Bellatrix's gaze softened, and she reached out her hand.

He was glad when Mother didn't reach out as well, even if only because the bars were cursed. He was _not_ a coward. Bellatrix Lestrange was an ugly, crazy bitch.

"The Dark Lord," she whispered, her voice passionate and reverent. She turned her arm over, revealing her faded Mark. The snake and the skull. Draco had never seen one before. His father hid his like it was something disgraceful. Bellatrix caressed hers like a lover.

"He whispers to me in the dark," she said. "The maze. The graveyard. Flesh of the servant, willingly given." She turned her stroking fingers into claws, her dirty nails digging into her wrist until they created a ragged bracelet of blood.

"It should be me," she whined, her voice suddenly girlish and petulant. "It should be me and not the fucking rat!"

_It's true. She's mad_. Draco watched, mesmerized, as Bellatrix smeared her blood over the Dark Mark. The snake seemed to glisten in the firelight. She sank to her knees, wrapped her hand around her skinny arm and started to rub it, up and down, like a cock. She let out a low moan and closed her eyes.

"Draco," Mother said calmly. "Wait for me down the hall."

He hesitated, not wanting to be alone in this forsaken place. He had seen the living men with the dead, soulless eyes. He was afraid the dementors would come and suck _his_ soul out of his mouth. The second before his mother would have spoken again, more firmly, he turned and walked away.

Bellatrix called after him, mocking him.

"You'd better find your courage, little rabbit. Find it quick, like a rabbit. He is coming back. He is coming back!"

* * *

Draco brought the goblin up from the cellar and waited for his chance. It came after Griphook confirmed the sword of Gryffindor was a fake, and Bellatrix summoned the Dark Lord, stroking her nails, now long and black, over her Dark Mark. When she told Greyback he could have the girl, a tormented shout sounded through the room, and Potter and Weasley attacked.

Greyback reached Hermione first, with supernatural speed. He had shred off his clothes as he ran and hunched over her, naked, his penis obscenely large and red. He raised one clawed hand high, preparing to savagely rip through her clothes and her skin, to expose her cunt and fuck her to death.

"_Stupefy!_"

The intensity of Draco's spell blasted the werewolf back against the mirror over the fireplace, shattering its silver surface with a thousand tiny cracks. Greyback was on his feet, snarling and furious, within seconds. There wasn't time for another spell. Draco jumped the last five steps, reaching out for Hermione. He gripped her arm hard, closed his eyes and concentrated. He could feel the heat of the wolf near his back as he and Hermione Disapparated.

They reappeared inside the oubliette.

It was pitch black. Cold and silent. He and Hermione were alone.

"_Lumos_," Draco murmured.

The tip of his wand glowed brilliant white, revealing a small, round room, made entirely of black stone. There were no doors or windows. No bed or chair. No ceiling that he could see. It was like the bottom of a waterless well. He had only been in this secret dungeon once before, when he was thirteen. His father had demonstrated its power to him with a house-elf. Only a Malfoy could enter or leave it or someone with a Malfoy.

Hermione lay broken on the floor, and Draco kneeled beside her.

"Granger," he said, shaking her. She was limp, bloody and bruised. Unconscious but still breathing. He performed a hasty, basic healing spell. He shrugged off his jacket and transfigured it into a black pillow before slipping it beneath her head.

Even battered, she was a beauty. He softly traced the sculpted line of her cheekbone. It was the first time he had ever touched her, and he felt his heartbeat quicken.

He stood up abruptly. There wasn't time now. The Dark Lord would be here soon.

* * *

"Dobby has no master! Dobby is a free elf, and Dobby has come to save Harry Potter and his friend."

_His friend__._

Draco quietly entered the drawing room and saw chaos. The chandelier had fallen to the floor, a heap of glittering crystal. The house-elf stood near the fireplace and took Harry Potter's hand.

"Ron – GO!" Potter shouted, tossing a wand to Weasley.

Draco was only peripherally aware of Potter and the elf Disapparating, of the swirl of Bellatrix's black robes as she flung her silver dagger through the air. He watched Ron Weasley, who held the injured goblin like a child. Griphook clutched the sword. Weasley caught the wand and without hesitation, he Disapparated, too.

There was a moment of shocked silence and then Lucius and Bellatrix were screaming at each other, about letting the prisoners escape and the vanished knife and the Dark Lord's approach. About the terror of the situation and how he would punish them. Draco scanned the room. He saw the Snatchers rushing out the door. Fenrir Greyback stood in a corner, still naked, and confused. His eyes were ice blue with pinpoint pupils. Draco smelled his mother's perfume and turned to look down at her as she took his arm.

"Draco," she whispered. "Where were you?"

He considered his answer and then said, "With Hermione Granger." His mother's blue eyes narrowed.

"Who is Hermione Granger?"

Draco resisted a triumphant smile.

"No one," he said.

* * *

Her housemates, her teachers, her parents. Her best friend and the boy who loved her. Her enemies, including the most powerful dark wizard of all time. Not one of them remembered her. She had never existed.

The oubliette was a place you put someone to have them forgotten.


	2. Chapter 2

**THE OUBLIETTE**

**CHAPTER TWO**

* * *

It was almost dawn before Draco returned to the dungeon with a small bag of supplies.

Bellatrix had borne the brunt of the Dark Lord's rage. He'd tortured her for hours, one curse away from melting the coils of her brain inside her skull. Draco had watched every second of her pain.

"_Lumos_," he whispered in the dark.

Hermione still slept on the floor, curled up on one side. There was no pillow or jacket under her head or anywhere in the room. The oubliette had Vanished it, leaving nothing but its prisoner. Draco wondered how long foreign objects stayed here and where they went. He took four stout candles out of his bag, lit them and floated them up into the air to form a crude chandelier. Then he reached into his pocket, took out a tiny sofa no bigger than an almond and placed it on the floor. With a murmured incantation, it grew to its full size, its cream damask absurdly bright in the dungeon. He gently picked up Hermione and placed her on it. She cried out when her fingers pressed against the cushions.

"It's all right," Draco whispered. "It's all right."

He inspected Hermione's hand with care and saw her ring finger was broken and bent at a sickening angle. He said, "_Episkey_." Her finger straightened and healed with a crunch that made her gasp. She didn't wake up.

Draco used his wand to clean the blood off her face and dark hair. He took off her trainers and socks, which were still damp from some faraway forest. He cleaned and dried them and then held her cold feet between his hands, rubbing them until they were warm. He unbuttoned her trousers and slipped them off, revealing pale blue cotton knickers and her slender legs. He tried to ignore the powerful surge of arousal that swept through him, a feeling that only intensified as he slipped her jumper over her head. His breath caught when he saw her small breasts inside a silky white bra. For twenty agonizing minutes, as his hard prick strained against his pants, he cleaned her and healed her, only touching her skin to spread bruise removal paste over the purple spots dotting her face and arms.

When his ministrations were finished, he gazed at her. She was shivering. Her nipples were hard. He had brought a blanket and some food and water. Instead of opening the bag at his feet, he reached out and placed his hand over one of her breasts. She pressed up into the warmth, moaning with pleasure. Desire burned through Draco, his pulse racing. He moved over Hermione and kissed her.

It was rough and passionate. Within seconds, she was kissing him back. Her hands were in his hair, her hips pushing up against him. Draco gasped at the sensation and thrust his erection hard against her thigh.

"Ron," she sighed into his mouth.

Draco recoiled and stared down at her, stunned and angry. Hermione's eyes fluttered open. They were sleepy and tender. Draco's hands twined in her thick hair, and he gave her head a firm shake. She couldn't want someone like Weasley. It didn't make any sense.

Hermione blinked and her soft expression hardened. She saw _him_.

She screamed and pulled his head back with a sharp tug on his hair. Her other hand struck, breaking his nose. Bright, sharp pain radiated through his skull. Blood gushed over his lips and onto her neck and chest. She hit his nose again, and he scrambled back and closed his eyes tight to bear the hurt. He heard glass shatter. When he looked at her again, his vision wet and blurry, Hermione held the remnants of a broken glass bottle like a knife. She looked savage, almost naked and painted with his blood, her hair a wild tangle.

Draco healed his nose non-verbally but didn't bother cleaning the blood from his face. "Now what will you drink, Granger? Not smart at all, for such a clever girl."

"Where are Ron and Harry?" she demanded. "What is this place?"

"This is the Malfoy oubliette," he said almost cordially. "Do you know the English translation of the French word _oublier_?

"To forget. Related to _oblivion_ and _Obliviate_ through the classical Latin _oblivisci_."

"Very clever. But that doesn't change the fact that you're trapped in a dungeon in mismatched underwear and covered in blood."

"Your blood," Granger said. She tipped her chin up proudly and made no effort to cover herself.

"Yes, my blood," Draco conceded. He savored the heat simmering between them, the twist of arousal low in his belly. He let his eyes roam over the feminine curves of her body and remembered her tongue stroking his. He wasn't prepared for the cold shock of her next words.

"Who are you?"

"Who... Who am I?" he said slowly. "What game are you playing at?"

"What do you want with me?" she asked.

"Granger, say my name," he said, his voice growing hard.

"I don't _know_ your name."

Fury made Draco's movements brutal and efficient. He grabbed Hermione's wrist and squeezed until she dropped the broken glass bottle. He pushed her back against the wall, holding her arms above her head and glaring down at her with rage.

"Say it!"

"I can't!"

Draco looked into her dark eyes and saw absolutely no recognition of him. She had only been in the oubliette for seven hours. He felt a sensation like warm wind brushing over his skin and realized she was attempting to fight him with wordless, wandless magic.

"Stop it," he muttered. He slammed the backs of her hands against the wall. She gasped, pain and anger flashing in her eyes.

The sight of her passion, even the passion of anger, aroused him beyond belief. She was so close, her breasts, her blood-stained bra, touching his chest. Through the smell of blood and sweat and pine, he could smell _her_. A trace of something sweet and tempting like cherries. He was hard again and breathless. There was nothing to stop him from taking her. Nothing. He could bear her to the floor and Vanish her underwear. He could spread her legs wide and ram deep inside her. Take her virginity, if she still had it. Fuck her hard until he came. He could make her come, too. He could make her want him, make her remember him.

No one would ever know.

After a long moment, he released her and turned away.

"Get dressed before your clothes disappear," he said roughly. "And I suggest you eat quickly, too."

Before he Disapparated, he snuffed out the flames of the floating candles, leaving her to find her way, alone, in the dark.

* * *

Draco didn't return to the oubliette for almost a day.

It had been an eventful day in the world above. He'd been happy to see Bellatrix crawling on her hands and knees, like a dog, at the Dark Lord's feet. Her master hadn't acknowledged her all day and had left her, weeping, late in the afternoon. He'd returned at midnight with a new wand. Draco had recognized it immediately and had known that the Dark Lord had desecrated the White Tomb to possess it.

He remembered disarming Albus Dumbledore, the elation he'd felt as the wand had sailed out of the old man's hand and disappeared over the ramparts of the Astronomy Tower. It should have been Draco's moment of triumph. Action would have changed the fortunes of his family forever. His glory had been stolen by a moment's hesitation. And by Severus Snape.

Two hours before dawn, when the house was still and silent, Draco filled another bag with food and water. He included a blanket and more candles, just in case, and Disapparated into the oubliette.

"Who's there?" Hermione whispered in the dark. "Is it you?"

"_Lumos_."

The room was empty except for Hermione. No sofa, no candles, no blanket, not one shard of sparkling glass. She had put her clothes back on as he'd advised and sat against the wall now, shivering. Draco opened the bag and floated and lit the candles as he had before. He pulled out a blanket and handed it to her. She wrapped it around herself with a pleasurable groan.

"Water?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, handing her a glass bottle, which she uncorked and drank like a woman who had just walked out of the desert. She asked for food next, which he provided. As he watched her eat, he noticed her bloody fingernails and her broken ring finger.

"What did you do to your hands?"

She glanced at him briefly before turning back to her bread. "I tried to climb the walls."

"How far up did you get?" he asked.

"Not far. I broke my finger."

She held out her hand, and Draco noticed that the broken finger stuck out at the same sickening angle that it had yesterday. He knelt down and healed it again. He looked at her carefully and noticed there was blood on her face and in her hair. Her bruises hadn't faded. Her shoes and socks were probably damp.

No magic could last in the oubliette. It allowed nothing to stay in it but the one consigned to it.

"Will you tell me who you are without getting angry?" Hermione asked.

At least she remembered yesterday. She remembered _him_ from yesterday, and that pleased him.

"I'm Draco Malfoy," he said.

"Draco, after the constellation? Latin for _dragon_."

"Yes."

"Why are you keeping me here, Draco?" she asked.

"For your own protection."

"Protection from whom? From Voldemort?"

Draco cringed, not because of the sound of the name, but because it was Taboo. But nothing happened. No Snatchers Apparated into the oubliette. Its magic was powerful and ancient. Impenetrable. Inescapable.

"I'm forbidden to tell you anything," Draco said.

"Can't you put me somewhere else?" Hermione asked.

"No, not yet. It's too dangerous. I'll make you more comfortable," he said gently, kneeling down. "Are your socks and shoes wet again?"

"It doesn't matter what you do," she whispered. "Nothing _stays_ here."

But she still lifted the blanket to reveal her damp trainers.

* * *

Draco hated the thought of her on the cold floor with no warmth or softness to comfort her. With no relief from injuries that kept returning. Over the next week, when he could get away, he went to his laboratory, a secret room where he could think and work alone. He crafted a potion there. He tested it, and when it was ready, he brewed a batch. It was clear with an iridescent sheen that reminded him of the surface of a soap bubble. He dipped a small branch blooming with pink blossoms into the cauldron and whispered, "_Ammaturofors_." When the fumes smelled as sweet as fruit, he lifted the branch out to reveal a ripe peach.

He would use it tonight. She would finally have some comfort.

He had visited Hermione every night as he'd perfected the potion. He would bring her candles, food and water. Furniture, a blanket and pillows. All of which would disappear sometime after he left her at dawn. Every night, he would clean and heal her. She would hold her hand out to him, with its broken finger. She didn't attempt to climb the walls again, and he always left the candles burning whenever he left.

Within two days, she had forgotten the Dark Lord and anything about the war. The day after that, she didn't remember Hogwarts. Next, she forgot Harry Potter and, finally, finally, she forgot Ron Weasley. But she knew who Draco was, at least the Draco she'd met since she'd woken up in the oubliette. Her kind jailer.

And the oubliette hadn't stripped away her innate self, although it had stripped away her memories. She was still remarkably intelligent. He could see the snap of thoughts and calculations in her dark eyes. He could see her spirit, a strong flame despite her weariness. One night, he had brought down a small board of wizards' chess, and she'd claimed his king in seven moves.

"Checkmate," she'd said and actually smiled at him. He had desperately wanted to kiss her again but he resisted. He waited.

* * *

Every night, when Draco appeared, he tried to ignore the smell of piss and shit. He'd been confused the first time he'd seen her feces on the opposite side of the dungeon from where she sat, huddled, her chin on her upraised knees.

"It's of me," Hermione said in a soft, miserable voice. Her eyes were cast down, her cheeks bright pink with shame. "So it will stay."

He had quickly Vanished the waste and perfumed the air with the scent of cherries.

"It will probably return," she had whispered. "But thank you."

They never spoke of it again. But every night, after lighting the candles and before healing her broken finger and cleaning her, Draco Vanished the growing pile of shit. In the chill of the oubliette, Hermione couldn't spare a single piece of clothing to cover it.

* * *

"Here," Draco said.

He couldn't wait for Hermione to finish eating before holding the peach out to her. It was radiant in the candlelight, gold blushing to dusky red. Velvet soft.

"Oh, Draco," she said, reaching across the sofa. "It's so beautiful. Is it summer?"

As she took the peach, her fingers brushed against his, making his pulse jump. He watched as she held the fruit up to her nose and breathed in its smell with a sigh. Then she opened her mouth and took a bite, sucking up its juices and moaning at the sweet taste. Draco felt his body respond eagerly to her pleasure, his cock swelling.

Within seconds, Hermione's eyelids closed. As she swayed forward, he pulled her into his arms and held her against his chest.

"I'll see you soon," he whispered, his lips touching her brow. He caught the fruit as it rolled out of her hand.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

_Ammaturofors_ is a spell created for this story. _Ammaturo_ is Latin for "mature, hasten, ripen."

**Reviews are welcomed! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**THE OUBLIETTE**

**CHAPTER THREE**

* * *

He found Hermione trapped by the moving staircases.

She stood on a stone ledge jutting out from the wall. It had recently been a landing for the intersection of one staircase as it split into two. If she stepped off the platform, she would plummet five stories down onto the floor of the Entrance Hall.

The portrait behind her was empty, except for a sweep of painted, green drapery. She looked beautiful, solemn in her school robes, her face unmarred and her bones unbroken. He'd found a way to stop her pain, at least in part. Perhaps this escape would be enough to help her endure until the Dark Lord won the war. Until he could find a better place to hide her.

Also in his school robes, Draco stood on an unmoving staircase on the opposite wall and called out to her.

"Not smart at all, for such a clever girl, Prefect Granger. No one gets caught without stairs except first years. Or Hufflepuffs."

He pulled out his wand to assist her but was stopped by the expression in her eyes. It was one of pure concentration, as she watched the rapidly moving staircases. Within twenty seconds, she'd deciphered the rhythm of their seemingly random movements and made a daring leap that took Draco's breath away. A quick run upstairs and another jump, and she was on his staircase. She leaned casually against the stone banister and gazed up at him.

"Prefect Malfoy, do I look like a first year? Or a Hufflepuff?"

_She most definitely did not_, he thought as he pocketed his wand and walked down the stairs toward her.

She had a satchel full of more books than most and a rigidly starched and buttoned-up white shirt under her jumper. But she also had a flirtatious tilt to one hip and a wicked glitter in her dark eyes. Her hair was long, hanging in wanton curls down her back. She looked exactly as she should. She was the Hermione Granger he'd dreamt of for years, herself but also the girl she would have been in a perfect world. Pure. And his.

When he reached her step, he smiled and lightly traced the little, gray snake on the crest on her robes. She gasped and leaned forward, against his fingers. He cupped her breast through her clothing. Without a hint of artifice or practiced seduction, she grabbed his tie and pulled him down to her.

"Draco," she whispered the instant before their lips met.

It was their first kiss. Their first, _real_ kiss, and he would remember it forever. The taste of her, her moans, the way the brush of her tongue against his filled his entire body with sweeping pleasure. This was the kiss he would measure all others against, and he would do anything to have it again and again.

When they parted, he saw light on her face and realized that a stained-glass window had appeared in the wall behind him. A rose window, its glass glowing in shades of gold and amber. His fingers traced a spiral of light along one of her curls, and he kissed her again, pulling her hard against his body.

"Skive off Charms, Granger, and fuck me in the Room," he whispered, breathless.

"Is that a euphemism?" she asked, just as breathless, smiling against his mouth.

"It is not," he said, chuckling. God, she was wonderful.

"I don't skive," she said haughtily.

"Oh, come on, you insufferable swot."

"I love you, too, you unspeakable prat."

Draco stared down at her, amazed. He hadn't expected her words, and they made him feel powerful and invincible.

"Tonight then," Draco said. "We'll use the Cloak. I'll take you anywhere you want. Just let me... let me _be_ with you, Hermione." He knew he was begging, but he couldn't help it. He didn't care about his pride. He had wanted her for so long.

"Yes," she whispered.

The light shining on them grew warmer and brighter as the sun illuminated the colored glass.

That night, under his Invisibility Cloak, they crept up to the Astronomy Tower. The place of his greatest hesitation, his greatest failure. But this time, Draco didn't hesitate. He didn't fail. He took Hermione in every way he'd ever wanted, rough and filthy and sweet and passionate, until their dream bodies were glossy with sweat, until they could barely move they were so weak from rapture. He cried out every time he entered her and sought her kisses every time he came, marveling at how wonderful she made him feel. What was the ticking of the entire universe compared to this bliss, he thought, as he gazed up at brass models of planets and suns. He knew he was being a witless, romantic fool to think such a thing, but, again, he didn't care.

* * *

Draco woke up in the oubliette to discover he'd come in his pants more than once. Hermione was beside him on the sofa, still sleeping, her face flushed and her lips parted. He could smell her arousal in the air, through the sweet, thick scent of the half-eaten peach he'd dropped between them. He cleaned himself and then unfastened his trousers. Reaching into his boxers, he pulled out his cock and stroked it until it was hard. He stared at Hermione.

"Beautiful," he whispered, moving his hand faster, with impassioned urgency. "You're so beautiful."

His other hand reached out, his fingers threading through her hair. It was tangled, not as soft and pretty as it had been in their dream. Not shining with golden light. He caressed the tender skin of her neck, and she moaned. At the sound, wild need seized him, dragging him higher, right to the edge. It held him there, within a storm of sensation. He couldn't keep his eyes open or quiet the desperate sounds he was making.

He shouted her name as he spilled over his hand, imagining her beneath him in the Astronomy Tower.

* * *

Every night and sometimes during the day, if he could avoid detection, Draco brought Hermione an enchanted peach. They would rise up together, out of the meager candlelight of the oubliette and into a sunny dream world. They held hands in class and laughed in the Great Hall and studied together in the library. She tied her favor, a green ribbon from her hair, around his arm and cheered as he won the Quidditch Cup for Slytherin.

And always and everywhere – the lush, drugging kisses. They kissed for hours, clinging to each other, stroking each other to orgasm. They fucked all night, according to the distorted clocks that measured time in dreams. They fucked in classrooms, on the forest floor, and within the hushed, velvet worlds of their curtained beds. But Draco knew it more than just fucking. He knew it was love by the way they touched each other and gazed into each other's eyes, with reverence and wonder and a fierce possession.

Draco finally acknowledged all the feelings he'd denied for years. His greatest secret was his love for Hermione Granger. He saw it now for what it was, true and powerful. It overwhelmed him every time he looked at her. Finally, he couldn't keep it inside any longer. It had to be released, like breath.

"I love you," he whispered.

They were playing chess before the fireplace in the common room. She glanced up and smiled. Of course, in this world, she believed he'd told her that hundreds of times before. But Draco had never said it before in his life. Love was not spoken in his family.

Ten minutes later, for the first time, he won their game.

"Checkmate," he said, grinning. She glared down at the board, bewildered and angry, and he couldn't help but sweep it aside. Kingdoms clattered onto the floor as, laughing, he pulled her into his arms.

* * *

Something was wrong.

He and Hermione sat on a green blanket by the Black Lake. The sky was unseasonably blue, the air warm. But seasons, a more ancient measurement of time than clocks, could also be distorted in dreams. Draco gazed across the lake at the vast hedge maze that was growing for the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament. He tried to navigate a successful path through it with his eyes, but every time he blinked, he lost his place.

He gazed at Hermione. Her hair was in a long, thick braid. She held the golden egg in her lap, her fingers idly tracing its faint etchings, her reflection warped by the convex, metallic shell.

"What did it say again?" she asked.

Draco paused, staring at the dark lake water before repeating the mermaids' song a third time.

"_Come seek us where our voices sound,_

_We cannot sing above the ground,_

_And while you're searching, ponder this:_

_We've taken what you'll sorely miss,_

_An hour long you'll have to look,_

_And to recover what we took,_

_But past an hour – the prospect's black,_

_Too late, it's gone, it won't come back."_

Hermione pondered the childish riddle for what seemed like hours before she set the egg on the edge of the blanket and whined, "Draco, I don't know. Can't we talk about something else?"

She lay down and rested her head in his lap. A moment later, she gave a contented sigh as he softly touched her hair, his fingers unraveling her braid.

He asked her about the egg's clue again in the prefects' bathroom. They were both naked in the large pool. Fragrant, white foam created snowy hillsides on the hot water. Blue-colored bubbles within bubbles, the size of Quaffles and Bludgers, floated in the sultry air.

Hermione rose out of the water, sputtering, her wet head as dark and sleek as an otter's. Draco heard a dull thunk as the golden egg sank to the bottom of the bath.

"It sounds much better underwater," she said.

"Yes, but what does it mean? I need to figure this out for the Second Task."

"I know, but I..." She sounded frustrated. "Draco, I just don't know. You're very smart. You'll have to figure it out on your own."

She swam to the opposite side of the pool and folded her glistening arms upon the mosaic ledge, her back to him. She gazed up at the painting of the blond mermaid. And still, she didn't get it. Draco dipped his head underwater and cursed, unheard. The egg was still open, glowing blue and singing. The mermaids' voices reverberated sweetly through the water.

_But past an hour – the prospect's black,_

_Too late, it's gone, it won't come back._

Draco stayed underwater until his lungs burned, until the burn became more painful than the panic rising inside him. He had felt this panic before, this desperation. For an entire year, he'd felt it, choking the air out of him. This was _not_ the place for that feeling. This could _not_ end as that had. He wouldn't let it.

When he couldn't bear the band that squeezed his chest any longer, he pushed out of the water, gasping. He was upon Hermione within two powerful lunges of his arms. He turned her around roughly and heard her cry echo through the white marble room. When he saw her breasts rise out of the water, wet and beautiful, he was instantly hard and kissing her. Their tongues slid together as sensuously as their silky, wet bodies. He pressed her against the side of the pool, spread her legs and plunged into her.

He pounded her against the marble wall, as if he were some kind of mindless animal, ruled by instinct and sensation. It was loud and savage and over quickly. As Draco felt Hermione curl forward against his chest and kiss the fevered skin of his throat, he leaned his head back and looked up at the empty portrait. The mermaid had slipped away, obviously uninterested in watching yet another pair of students fuck in the prefects' bathroom.

* * *

The next night, Hermione told him she didn't want to play chess anymore, that it was boring, but Draco knew she was embarrassed and too proud to admit it. She had lost all sense of strategy and then forgotten the most basic rules. Just as she had been unable to solve the most basic riddle.

The day after that, he noticed she no longer helped the younger students with their essays and charms. In fact, she had stopped talking to them entirely, uncaring of the little joys and sorrows they had always shared with her. She gazed off into the distance instead, ignoring them, and they looked bereft, like children who had lost their mother.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Reviews are welcomed! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**THE OUBLIETTE**

**CHAPTER FOUR**

* * *

It was rare for the three of them to be together, alone, without the others. The Dark Lord and his Death Eaters were on a mission, but Father had been ordered to stay behind, in disgrace. He hated it. But Draco took comfort from how much it felt like the time before Voldemort's return. They all sat in the parlor, his mother and father in separate chairs, each reading a book before the crackling fire.

Across the room, Draco sat before a chessboard, playing both sides.

They were the only two people in the world who would know if anyone had ever been brought up from the oubliette before. Brought _back_. If Hermione came back, would she remember her time underground? The time before?

Would she be herself again? Would she love him or hate him? Would she _be_ remembered?

"Draco," his mother said, looking up from her book. "Is something on your mind?"

His father glanced up. They both waited for him to speak.

"No," Draco finally said.

A moment later, a shadow darkened his chessboard. He smelled his mother's perfume. She sat down opposite him, surveyed the checkered battlefield and said, "Bishop to E4." The white bishop pivoted slightly to his left and glided forward into his new square. He announced his arrival with a sharp, pompous rap of his crosier against white marble.

"You seem preoccupied, Draco," his mother said softly. "This wouldn't be about Hermione Granger, would it?" Her blue eyes stared intently at him over the field of play.

Draco didn't look at her as he took her knight. He never answered her question.

* * *

Two days later, Father was summoned to join the Death Eaters.

Just after midnight, Draco stood in his parents' bedroom, staring down at his sleeping mother. Her long, sleek hair spilled over the pillows, as white as milk in the moonlight. He concentrated and sifted delicately through her mind, through a pale, lovely dream and into recent memories. When he found the right one and carefully isolated it, he lifted his wand and said with precision, "_Obliviate_."

Mother whimpered in her sleep, and for a moment, Draco was terrified he'd hurt her. But as he withdrew from her mind, passing into the gossamer veil of her dream again, he saw the reason for her distress.

The dream had become a nightmare.

She was waltzing with Father at the Malfoy Winter Masquerade. Dressed in white, their masks discarded, they were as pure and beautiful as falling snow in the crystalline ballroom. They smiled promises at each other, young and mad with love. Narcissa's smile faded when she saw a thin, red line appear above Lucius' cravat. The cut of an invisible knife. At first she wondered if she had just imagined it, and then his blood began to gush out, over white lace. Narcissa's bodice felt warm. She stared down to see it stained red with blood in the pattern of a snake and a skull. When she looked up again, the gash in her husband's throat had widened into a dark, awful grin. His eyes were blank. His head fell back at a broken angle.

She woke up screaming, clutching her throat, alone in her bedroom.

* * *

Draco managed to slip away undetected the next afternoon and Apparate into the oubliette. It was May Day, and he was determined to guide Hermione into dreams of spring, to a reckless and beautiful festival where she wore flowers and ribbons in her hair. A pursuit of the senses, not of the mind, to keep his suspicions at bay.

When he entered their dream, however, it was wintertime. He was at the Malfoy Winter Masquerade, or his mind's altered version of it.

The ballroom was a fantasy of sparkling white and silver. Gently falling snow obscured the vaults of the enchanted ceiling. Crystal chandeliers hung low, creating a romantic atmosphere of candlelight just above the waltzing dancers' hair. All the guests were dressed in white and wore elaborate masks. They were reflected, to infinity, in mirrored walls.

Draco saw Hermione, unmasked and alone, in the center of the ballroom. She wore an exquisite, white gown with a sweeping skirt and full sleeves that bared her shoulders and a corset that seemed to be carved of glittering ice. Her dark curls were long and lavish, embellished with ribbons and pale jewels. She looked lost and confused, flinching whenever dancers twirled too close to her.

Draco walked toward her. When she saw him, her eyes widened with fear. She turned and ran as quickly as she could through the crowd.

"Hermione," he called out. "It's me."

The faster she ran, the faster he chased after her, until she was trapped in the corner of the room. Her eyes flickered up to him and then she covered her face in her hands.

"Please don't hurt me," she said meekly.

"Hermione?"

As he stepped closer to her, he saw a dark shadow rise behind her in the mirrored walls. He realized it was him, his reflection. He wore a black, hooded robe in a room full of white. On his face was a Death Eater mask. It was white and silver, in the shape of a skull. He threw it onto the floor and pushed the hood off his blond hair. He took Hermione by the arms, unable to feel the silk of her sleeves through his black leather gloves.

"Hermione, it's me."

"Draco?" she said, looking up at him, baffled. "Your face."

"It's a masquerade ball, love. Don't be frightened."

"There are just so many of them," she said, looking fearfully at the swirl of dancers. All of their masks, he noticed, were sinister. They seemed to stare at Hermione as they danced past with menace in their eyes. He wished he knew how to banish them. He had never been able to control the unfurling of these dreams.

"Just look at _me_," he said, taking her hand. "Dance with me."

"No... No, I can't." Her fingers slipped out of his, and she ran onto the balcony. He slowly followed.

At first, he couldn't find her. He only saw a great expanse of gleaming white marble dusted with snow. He watched the snowflakes falling silently from the black sky and breathed in the cold air. In the hush, he heard a tiny sound, a breath. He turned and saw Hermione standing against a wall overgrown with brown vines.

"Come here, Lady Malfoy," Draco said, holding out his hand.

Hermione stepped forward, delicately lifting her skirts. Her white slippers crunched over the wet snow. She shivered in the cold, snowflakes melting on her bare shoulders and creating stars in her dark hair. He took off his cloak, wrapped it around her and held her, her back against his chest, as they stared down into the garden. He took her left hand and caressed the gold band on her ring finger.

"What is that?" she asked, pointing.

"That's our maze," he answered.

Below, sugared with snow, was an evergreen yew hedge maze. The outside was a large square, the inside, a small circle. All the twisting paths in between moved slowly, constantly rearranging to confound those who entered.

"Do you want to try to make it to the center?" he asked. "Just the two of us, together."

"No," she said timidly. "It frightens me."

"Why does it frighten you?"

"Because of the way it moves, the way it... lives. It wants to trap us." She turned within his arms and put her arms around his waist.

This was the girl who had leaped across moving staircases in their dreams. Who had fought fiercely in battle and endured torture without breaking and never backed down. The oubliette had taken her intelligence, her compassion and her pride. Now, it had finally taken her courage, a characteristic so intrinsic to her that it had determined her House placement.

What was there left for it to take?

Draco closed his eyes and wished he could wake up.

* * *

When he did leave their dream, he gazed at Hermione. The weakly flickering candlelight in the oubliette cast deep shadows on her skin. Her eyelids fluttered. Weary and sick with worry, he pulled her up against him.

"Draco," she said softly. He barely heard her, but her lips brushing against his neck sent a tremor through him.

"Yes, love?"

"Please take me out of here," she said. Her finger curled feebly against his shirt.

"It's not safe yet," he said.

"Draco, please. I can feel myself changing. I can feel..." She broke down into sobs. Draco felt a sharp ache in his chest. He had never seen Hermione cry before, never. She had always been too strong and too proud to show her tears. He tightened his embrace.

"It's all right," he soothed. "It's going to be all right."

"Don't leave me," she begged. "When you leave me, I hurt."

Draco groaned and pulled her up to meet his kiss. He cradled her tenderly with one hand at her back and the other holding the side of her neck. He poured all his deep emotion for her into the kiss, rocking her gently, trying to give her pleasure and peace and show her how much she was loved.

"I'll be back in an hour, Hermione," he said between kisses. "I'll find a way to get you out. I promise."

He would finally talk to Mother.

"Thank you, Draco," she whispered.

* * *

Draco Apparated into his bedroom and then made his way to the stairs. Halfway down, he heard screams and the sizzle of violent wand fire. He saw Bellatrix stumble out of the drawing room, followed by his parents, their faces terrified. He stood frozen on the staircase.

"Draco, thank Merlin!" his mother cried out when she saw him. "Where have you been?"

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Harry Potter and his accomplices broke into Bella's vault at Gringott's today." She grabbed his hand, pulling him behind her as she followed Lucius and Bellatrix upstairs and into a darkened guest bedroom. "They took something vitally important to the Dark Lord, a golden cup."

"Accomplices?" Draco asked.

"Weasley and that French girl, the Beauxbatons champion," Narcissa said. "He is incensed. He killed all the goblins that brought the news. He's killing everyone who didn't run. Our home is filled with dead."

"His soul," Bellatrix whimpered from the far corner of the room. They all looked at her. She was a ghostly shape in the dark, hunched over and breathing hard. "It's his soul," she said, her voice rising.

"Bella, be _quiet_!"

Bellatrix grabbed her wild hair and sobbed, falling to her knees. Draco moved to one of the windows and looked between the velvet curtains, down into the garden. He waited, listening to the golden clock on the mantle tick away time.

Finally, Bellatrix mastered her tears. She rose to her feet and walked to the chamber door. With a vestigial gesture of her elegant youth, she smoothed her hair and lifted her chin. "His soul," she whispered to no one but herself before she left the room. "The boy is stealing his soul."

Draco watched his parents exchange a shrewd look. They would follow soon, at a distance, to see how Bellatrix was received.

"What happens now?" Draco asked.

"The battle will begin," his father said in a grave voice. These words were the first he'd spoken since Draco had seen him running out of the drawing room. "At Hogwarts. The final battle."

"When?"

"Now."


	5. Chapter 5

**THE OUBLIETTE**

**CHAPTER FIVE**

* * *

Hermione had been alone in the oubliette for six hours when the Dark Lord ordered those inside Hogwarts to surrender Harry Potter to him by midnight. When the protections fell and the battle began, Draco slipped inside the castle. He found Crabbe and Goyle. As thick as they were, he would need their help to capture Potter and end this as quickly as possible.

Two hours later, Draco's plan fell apart in the Room of Hidden Things. Potter disarmed him. Crabbe had lost control of Fiendfyre and gotten himself killed. And then, fucking Harry Potter had saved Draco on a broom. He watched, slumped against the wall, his throat burning with cursed smoke, as the diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw exploded in Potter's hands.

The crown. The cup. The sword. For some reason these artifacts were important to the Dark Lord, and Harry Potter was destroying them one by one.

Hermione had been alone in the oubliette for nine hours when Draco saw Fenrir Greyback over the screaming girl. He was raping her. Trails of blood ran down her white thighs, and his mouth gnawed on her ravaged shoulder. Her pretty, blond curls spilled across the floor. Draco thought of Greyback above Hermione and was seized by a red fury. Without thinking, he pointed the wand he'd taken off a dead student and screamed, "_Avada Kedavra_!" The werewolf was blasted off the girl in a flash of green light.

Draco met Professor Trelawney's owl eyes, magnified by shock and by her spectacles, before running away.

Hermione had been alone in the oubliette for eleven hours when the battle was suspended at four o'clock. Draco wondered if Potter would go into the Forbidden Forest as dared, to meet his fate. It would be easier to bring her out of the dungeon if Voldemort won. Or he could make a run for it now, run to a point where he could Apparate home and care for her. But if he were captured or killed... He decided to wait out the hour instead, hiding in Snape's pungent storeroom among jars of belladonna and minced crocodile heart.

Hermione had been alone in the oubliette for twelve hours when Voldemort and his army marched to the front doors of the castle with the dead body of Harry Potter. Draco watched through a mullioned window. He saw his parents and felt an immense sense of relief invigorate him like a deep breath of cold air.

After the battle resumed, he found them in the Great Hall. His mother pulled him into her arms for the first time since he was a little child. His father gripped his shoulder hard and then clapped him on the back, as if he were proud of him. Together, they turned, with everyone along the walls, to watch the final battles. Bellatrix fell, and Draco suppressed a smile as his mother gasped. Harry Potter revealed himself. Draco watched, enthralled, as Potter and Voldemort circled each other like predators and spoke great secrets aloud.

"The new master removed the wand from Dumbledore against his will," Potter said. "Never realizing exactly what he had done, or that the world's most dangerous wand had given him its allegiance..."

_It's me._

For an instant, Draco felt a wild elation. For a year, a _year_, he'd been the master of the Elder Wand and hadn't known it. He imagined what he could do with such an object. The power he could grasp. The glory. He looked at his father. And then he remembered, and he felt nauseous with profound loss and shame. Harry Potter had disarmed him mere hours ago in the Room of Hidden Things.

"The new master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy," Potter shouted.

Lucius looked at Draco, hope and ambition blazing in his gray eyes. Draco wanted to scream with rage. Instead, he looked down, his skin hot with his mortification.

"I overpowered Draco early this morning," Potter said, revealing Draco's failure to everyone. "I took this wand from him."

Draco didn't look at his father or at the hawthorn wand in Potter's hand. He felt his mother's fingers gently touch his back, a gesture made so smoothly that no one would have noticed it.

"So it all comes down to this, doesn't it?" Potter whispered to Voldemort. "Does the wand in your hand know its last master was Disarmed? Because if it does... I am the true master of the Elder Wand."

Hermione had been alone in the oubliette for thirteen hours when the greatest dark wizard of all time killed himself with his rebounded curse. He hit the ground as the brilliant red light of the rising sun flamed across the enchanted ceiling of the Hall. Potter held two wands in his hand. After a breathless second, the crowd rushed him, cheering jubilantly.

Harry Potter had fame and adoration. Power and glory. He had everything Draco had ever wanted, with one notable exception.

"I'm leaving," Draco said.

He walked out of the castle, not caring if his parents followed. He had to get to her. Thirteen hours. He had left her for longer than that before but never when she'd been so weak.

Halfway across the Entrance Courtyard, he looked back and saw no one. He broke into a run, racing over the bridge, through rubble. He was seconds away from the point where he could Apparate home when he felt a blast of wind against his back and stumbled onto his knees. Overhead, he heard a rushing sound and an inhuman shriek. A massive hippogriff landed in front of him, its orange eyes glaring fiercely. Its long, steely talons were close enough to slash him to ribbons. One of the older Weasley brothers, the dragon tamer, sat on its back.

"Hold still, Malfoy," he said. "Hippogriffs eat ferrets, you know. And Witherwings hasn't had his breakfast yet."

* * *

Hermione had been alone in the oubliette for twenty-six hours when Harry Potter finally answered Draco's demands to see him.

It was seven o'clock in the evening, and the Malfoys had been locked in an empty dungeon classroom all day, each trapped in a separate magical barrier that glowed blue and didn't allow them within two meters of the door. Their wands had been confiscated.

Potter walked into the classroom, his black hair even messier than usual, as if he'd just woken up.

"What?" he said.

Draco concentrated, knowing that only his words could get him out of here. He had to convince the great hero to speak for them, or Hermione would die. He walked to the very edge of his luminous prison. Another half-step and it would Stun him.

"Potter," he said. He heard the hauteur in his voice and tried to curb it. "We have to get back home. There are things that need attending."

"Malfoy, that's out of my hands."

"Potter, start thinking like the bloody savior of the world. _Nothing_ is out of your hands now. You owe us. You need to let us go."

"I owe you?" Potter gawked at him, his eye wide behind his shiny glasses. "I saved your life when you were trying to capture me."

"And a good thing I did, too, or you never would have become master of the Elder Wand."

"How noble of you."

Draco put his hands in his pockets and knew, without a backward glance, that his mother's perfect posture and marble expression had subtly shifted at his signal.

"My mother," he said solemnly, drawing Potter's eyes to her. "She risked her life when she told Voldemort you were dead."

He noticed Potter's eyes soften with concern. Draco turned to gaze at his mother. She and Father had sat as close to each other as their barriers would allow all day, but upon Potter's arrival, Lucius had walked away from her. Narcissa sat alone, weary and elegant, her elbows resting on a table. It seemed to take all her effort just to lift her chin as Potter studied her. Her eyes were sad, and she cast them down before Potter looked away.

"More assistance from a Malfoy," Draco said. "Without which you couldn't have defeated him."

After a long pause, Potter said, "That's a reason to let her go. Not you."

"Then let her go."

Potter was silent again, and this time, he studied Draco. He couldn't wilt like his mother. He would never be able to hide that he hated Potter. So he just stood there, defiant and waiting.

Twenty-six hours. She'd never been left alone that long. Without water. Without food. Without healing or cleansing. Or any relief for her pain.

_Don't leave me. When you leave, I hurt_.

Finally, Potter spoke. "When the Snatchers captured us, you knew it was me and Ron, even though I'd been Stung."

Draco nodded.

"Why didn't you identify us?"

_Because_ _I didn't want her to be killed. Your best friend that never existed._

"I don't know," Draco said.

"Professor Trelawney said you killed Fenrir Greyback to save Lavender Brown."

"She's alive?"

"Yes, in stable condition finally. Why did you kill him?

"He... was raping her. It wasn't right."

Potter's eyes narrowed before he abruptly turned away to pace the room. Fury burned inside of Draco. He trembled with the effort not to stupidly lunge at the barrier, to try to reach Potter and throttle him senseless. He was wasting valuable time. That a Malfoy would even have to ask _him_ for help, practically beg. It was intolerable. What kind of hero had wild hair and crooked glasses and scruffy trainers? Why did Draco need his permission?

But he had to get to Hermione, so he waited, with seething patience.

Potter stopped pacing and walked as close as the blue barrier would allow. He stared at Draco, his green eyes intense.

"Dumbledore thought it wasn't too late for you," he said. "That you still had a soul worth saving."

Draco was silent as he returned Potter's relentless gaze.

"You didn't kill him when you had the chance. I was there. In the Astronomy Tower. I could tell you were afraid to do it. Because part of you knew it was wrong."

At that moment, Draco wanted to kill Potter. Torture him and kill him. He wanted to crack open Dumbledore's tomb, just as Voldemort had done, and crush the old man's bones under his boot. Spit on his remains. How dare they presume to know how he felt that night? How dare they act so sanctimonious? Draco's hands curled into hard fists. He forced himself to remember Hermione, the light of a stained glass window on her hair, and his fingers slowly uncurled.

"You're right," Potter said decisively. "I owe your family a debt, and I always pay my debts. But your father. They've already decided. He'll be moved to Azkaban. He'll have to stand trial."

"No!" Narcissa cried out, rising. She moved so quickly toward her husband that her hair fluttered behind her like a white, silk banner.

"No one with the Dark Mark can avoid it," Potter said. He looked at Lucius, who had moved toward his wife, as close to her side as he could.

Then Potter looked at Draco with the question in his eyes.

Draco shrugged off his black jacket. He unbuttoned the cuff of his left sleeve and pushed up the fabric to the reveal the pale, unblemished skin of his forearm. He had never had the honor because of the whispers Bellatrix had hissed in Voldemort's ear. About how Draco was a child, a coward, how he was unworthy. Now, he was glad for her venom.

"Good," Potter said in a brisk tone. "Kingsley's been named interim Minister of Magic. I don't know if he'll listen to me, but I'm going to ask for immediate release for you and your mother."

Draco almost fell to his knees with relief. He took a deep breath to steady his emotions and then nodded curtly as Potter turned to leave.

"And Potter," he called after him as he reached the door. "Don't stop to talk to any of your pathetic fans along the way. We need to get home _now_. For my mother's sake."

Potter nodded his acknowledgement. Before he left, he pulled out a wand – not Draco's and not the Elder Wand – and siphoned away the blue glow dividing Lucius and Narcissa, creating a single prison for both of them. They instantly joined hands and, when Potter had left, clasped each other in a tight embrace.

"Azkaban," she whispered in despair.

"Hush, Narcissa. Calm yourself," Lucius soothed her, stroking her hair. "It will be all right." Soon, his lips were on hers, and they were clinging to each other in a passionate kiss.

Draco looked away, filled with jealously.

"I'm staying with your father until they take him," he heard his mother say in a low voice.

"Suit yourself," Draco murmured as he glanced at his pocket watch.


	6. Chapter 6

**This is the last chapter of this story. **

**I personally hate to accidentally glimpse the end of a story before THE END. I actually cover the screen or page with my hand to avoid peeking. So, if you are like me in this, I would recommend you do this, too (as silly as it sounds) because the end of this story is revealed the final word of the final paragraph.**

**Thank you for reading "The Oubliette". Reviews are welcomed. Love, Captainraychill.**

* * *

**T****HE OUBLIETTE**

**CHAPTER SIX**

* * *

Hermione had been alone in the oubliette for twenty-eight hours when Draco returned to her.

It was pitch black. Cold and silent and so foul-smelling that he almost retched.

"_Lumos Maxima_!" he shouted. A blinding sphere of white light shot from the end of his borrowed wand, illuminating the dungeon like a moon.

Hermione lay curled upon the floor, unmoving. He cried out her name and fell to his knees beside her. He pushed her matted hair away from her face. She was bruised and bloody and pale. Her lips were chapped. He scrambled in his bag for a bottle of water, uncorked it and poured it gently into her mouth. She didn't react at all, the water sliding down her chin like drool. Dread ran through him. He felt her skin.

She was cold but not that cold. And not stiff. He leaned over her mouth and felt the lightest stir of breath against his ear. He took her wrist, so thin and frail that it looked like a child's, and felt the faintest pulse.

_Thank you,_ Draco prayed silently.

He studied Hermione's small hand in his. Her ring finger was broken. Her fingertips were bloody from trying to climb the black walls of the oubliette again. Her littlest nail was gone, revealing the pulp underneath.

"Hermione, wake up," he said, shaking her gently. "Wake up." She didn't respond at all.

"_Enervate_!" he said.

Her eyelids suddenly fluttered as if she were dreaming. It was a small sign, but it was something. She was still in there somewhere. He had to reach her. He had to bring her back. His hand dipped into his bag again and touched something soft.

He pulled out the peach.

A bite would be too much. He thought about the dosage and pierced the fruit with his fingers, squeezing the sticky juice into the palm of his other hand. He poured the equivalent of a teaspoon into his mouth and leaned down to kiss Hermione, letting the sweet flavor slide from his tongue onto hers. He kissed her until he felt drowsy and then he closed his eyes and lay down next to her, flinching at the shocking coldness of the stone floor.

* * *

Draco stood on the balcony of the ballroom, looking down at the maze. There was no snow on the ground and no sun. He couldn't tell the season or the time of day. Slate-gray clouds obscured the sky. Ferocious winds tore leaves off trees and whipped them into swirling frenzies at his feet.

The maze had changed. It was the maze of the Triwizard Tournament, its yew hedges tall and wild. Its complex paths shifted, obeying the whim of a dangerous, magical will.

Draco saw a flash of lightning illuminate the clouds and heard thunder. Then he saw a flash of white on the ground. Hermione stood at the entrance of the maze, wearing her white ball gown. The dress was tattered and stained, as if she'd run through the forest in it, like a lost princess. The ruined silk and her long hair snapped in the wind. As stinging raindrops began to fall, she disappeared into the labyrinth.

He ran down to the garden, into the maze, to find her. The moment he entered the thick, tall hedges, he felt their menace. They creaked and swayed, pressing against him, twisting with sinuous vines. He saw a scrap of white silk caught on a thorn. He found Hermione's dirty, white slipper and then its mate. He followed these remnants deeper into the labyrinth, calling out her name. The rain soaked him, chilling him to the center of his bones. The gray clouds above boiled with violent light and sound.

Draco felt like he'd been running for hours when he finally turned a corner and saw her. Hope flared inside him. She seemed to be waiting for him, at the end of a long corridor of evergreen. The rain and wind stopped. The clouds fractured to form a brilliant sapphire of blue sky. The path between the two of them brightened with sunlight. They looked at each other across the distance. It was the eye of the storm.

It passed within the space of three breaths. The clouds shut, casting them both in shadow, as the storm resumed with a soul-shaking crack of thunder.

Draco ran toward Hermione as fast as he could. The maze shuddered and groaned around him, narrowing his path. Hermione gazed at him, the saddest expression in her dark eyes as one of her curls twined around her pale neck. She swayed. Her head tilted back. And she collapsed.

"Hermione!"

He never saw her hit the ground as rough leaves pressed painfully against his skin. The path between them disappeared as he was consumed by the labyrinth.

* * *

Draco woke up struggling.

The oubliette was dim, his _Lumos Maxima_ spell nearly extinguished. He shouted it again, and the dungeon was flooded with light. He saw Hermione on the floor, as broken as before. Except for her eyes. They were open. He scrambled to her, heard her shallow breathing and gazed down at her.

Her eyes were like the eyes of the dead. There was _nothing_ inside them.

He had seen that blank gaze before, in Azkaban.

"No, no, no, no," he begged. "Hermione, wake up! Look at me! HERMIONE!"

He gripped her shoulders and shook her brutally. Panicked, he reached back his arm and slapped her so hard across the cheek that the sound echoed through the dungeon. Half of her face was brilliant red from the impact, but her eyes - her terrifying eyes - were unchanged.

With a whimper, Draco pulled her roughly into his embrace. His mind frantically searched for a safe place to Apparate. To the garden, the most secret and quiet heart of the garden. He was trembling. He had to gain control of himself, or he would hurt them both. He pulled away from Hermione, holding her firmly by the arm and trying desperately to concentrate.

The more he tried to focus, the more erratic his thoughts became.

Was she damaged beyond repair? Had he waited too long?

He thought of Hermione's kiss, of how right it felt to love her. He thought of his mother, her white hair like milk in the moonlight. He thought of his father and the Dark Mark that condemned him. He thought of Bellatrix, her black eyes like beetles. He thought of how her cell in Azkaban had reeked of piss and shit.

The oubliette smelled worse.

Draco had no idea why he next thought of Harry Potter's words to him.

_I owe your family a debt, and I always pay my debts._

Potter had defeated Voldemort. Potter was the master of the Elder Wand and possibly the most powerful wizard in the world.

_I always pay my debts._

This thought pushed away all the others. It filled Draco's mind and allowed him to achieve focus, if not calm. Enough focus to Apparate safely.

The instant before he thought of the secret place in the garden, his fingers released Hermione's arm.

* * *

Draco sat alone on a marble bench in the center of the Malfoy hedge maze. He had sat there all night, thinking of Hermione, lingering over memories of her, both intense and inconsequential, until it was the dark before the dawn.

He had remembered the first time he'd seen her on the Hogwarts Express, when she'd asked him about a toad and he'd mocked her. He had remembered her endlessly raising her hand in class and how she'd slapped him senseless in third year. He had remembered the feeling of her soft skin pressed against him and the bliss he'd felt inside her body. He had remembered her blue gown at the Yule Ball and her white gown at the Winter Masquerade and the way she'd disappeared into the Triwizard maze like a ghost and never come out.

Strangely, his mind kept returning to one memory over and over, and he didn't know why.

It was just an unremarkable day from years ago, a Hogsmeade weekend in October. Snow had covered the ground. He'd been warming his hands around a hot butterbeer when he'd seen the three of them through the frost-laced window. They'd been bundled up in coats, smiling, their Gryffindor scarves wrapped tightly around their necks. Hermione's knit hat had been as red as a cardinal.

Draco had followed them as they'd walked back to Hogwarts. He'd hidden just inside the darkness of the forest, listening to them talk and laugh. They had fallen silent when it had begun to snow again. He'd felt it, too. The wonder of the moment. The smooth, white hush of pristine winter.

When the path had turned icy, Potter and Weasley had both reached out to take one of Hermione's gloved hands in their own. To make sure she didn't fall. To protect her from harm.

Dumbledore was no longer Draco's greatest failure. Hermione was. He'd known what the oubliette was doing to her. He'd known, and he'd ignored it, telling himself it would be all right every time another piece of her was smoothed away.

He had ruined her with fear and hesitation.

How could he wake up to this nightmare every day, to the crushing knowledge of what he had done and all he had lost and the kind of man he was?

_No_, he thought, taking a deep breath.

Draco put the tip of his wand to his temple. It felt cool and lethal, like a knife. The maze moved around him, but he was completely still, the center, the eye of the storm. He thought of Hermione one last time, of the light in her eyes. Then he whispered the incantation that would end his pain.

"_Obliviate_."

* * *

**THE END**


End file.
